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. "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam.
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