" The Wastrel rushed. “I get that a lot. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. Someone ought to be with him until the doctor arrives. 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. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences.
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