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And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. 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. With her lived a Mrs. Jeremiah Jackson and Mr.
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