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. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. ” Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. ’ Melusine jumped.
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