I’m rather scornful. " "Too proud, eh?" rejoined the prize-fighter. 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. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham.
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