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. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth.
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