So the talk went on. You understand. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. And Pottiswick, of course. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. I had a perfect shoal of callers. Sebastian had come to visit his old friend and former wife. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket.
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