It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. “Where am I?” he muttered. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Besides—there is Sir John. , Ltd.
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