She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. 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. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. My servant.
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