Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. 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. "I forgot. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. A town called Foster. Lord, I am sixty. He would always be her friend, too.
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