There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. 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 don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on.
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