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Taber. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. I once saw a man die after collapsing that way.
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