" "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. I'll call it my wedding gift. He drew a little sigh of relief. 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. " He opened his eyes, to behold hers large with wonder. "Back!" cried Jack fiercely: "lay a finger on her, and I will fell you to the ground. What you say is probably all true and necessary.
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