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. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. “Is Coke okay?” He asked as he pulled into the gas station. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood.
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