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. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes.
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