The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. Cathy's eyebrows perked up. 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. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. But he was not a father one could make much of.
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