Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. 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. Cast off this weakness. That's how I finally got wind of it.
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