He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. My profession has hardened me. 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. ’ ‘That’s right,’ agreed the militiaman, coming forward to stand before her. I must practise what I preach. By a sort of instinct.
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