Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. 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 slipped her hand between them and grasped his erection. I wanted to, that day in the Zoo.
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