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. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. You understand. " "Didn't know but what I'd been out-bid. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round.
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