Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. ’ He glanced at the portrait behind her. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. “No. In Hamilton Place that is, like I told you before, miss. ” He looked into her pale blue eyes. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. “Good God!” he exclaimed. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. 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.
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