Are you now satisfied?" "No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. Then he threw the letter at me. 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 was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. "I should never have been what I am, but for you.
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