" The Wastrel laughed. He was accustomed to such surprises, and enjoyed them. 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 spent my fair share of time in the closet. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened.
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