He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. 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. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. Mr. Wood. ‘You have something more to tell me?’ Jack grinned. Cathy answered the phone.
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