” “It certainly was,” she admitted. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. Then instinct took over. 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. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. And he unsheathed his sword.
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