’ She thrust him into the aperture, and pushed the hilt of the sword into his hand. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. 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. To make sure work of it, I'll superintend the job myself. One gets drawn into things. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality.
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