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. “I feel quite sure that Mrs. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is. After a while, he raised his eyes; and, if their glance could have been witnessed at the moment, it could not have been easily forgotten.
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