All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. “I certainly knew him no better than you. 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. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. "Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as much mine as yours, for that matter. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection.
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