"The key's on the outside— quick! quick!" Instantly alive to this chance, Blueskin broke away. She moved a little nearer to him. 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. It comes to this—am I to be trusted to take care of myself, or am I not?” “To judge from this proposal of yours, I should say not.
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