Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. 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 did not know what I was saying. “And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all.
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