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. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Pay fools with promises. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings.
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