On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. “I might go home, I don’t know. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. 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.
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