Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. "Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. "Again," cried Jonathan, sternly: "beware!" "What!" vociferated Trenchard. 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. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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