“I believe it is. 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. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. Say, that girl fooled me at first glance. "I never went to school. Dolby was portly and handsome. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. She shot a sudden glance at him.
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