The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. At the first glance, he imagined he must have stumbled upon a museum of rarities, there were so many glass-cases, so many open cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the next convinced him that if Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did not run in the ordinary channels. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. 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. His hand flew across the paper. I wouldn’t even have to use very much gasoline. He blurted, “I was just telling Lucy that I have finished an important work. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe.
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