"Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. 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. We ourselves have been similarly circumstanced. Each time that we meet I try to kill you.
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