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. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. That's a queer yarn. They decided quite audibly, “She’s an Old Dear, anyhow. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw.
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