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. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. The light disappeared. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. The name of his father's murderer is also known to me.
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