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 loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend.
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