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. Pretty! Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights! “You shall tell me your faults,” said Manning. But it was her proof. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch.
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