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. A new thought checked her steps and she froze. Wood obeyed. If you owe your confinement to me, you shall owe your liberation to me, also. God knows how you did it. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. She became aware of his presence as she had never been aware of any human being in her life before. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. “Yes. \" He had caught her in a moment of weakness; the hunger had made her emotional! She felt a terrible warmth surge from her loins.
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