. 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. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. .
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