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. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. As Gosse pushed her around it, she felt his hold about her of necessity loosen slightly. “Very well,” he said, “I will go.
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