Part 8 “Why should I ever come back?” she said to herself, as she went down the staircase. 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. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. This is a tale of two young fools. Now there is none. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse.
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