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 do not wish to make impertinent inquiries into your private life. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. "Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear," replied Wood, receiving the little burthen with a laugh. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see.
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