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. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. God knows how you did it. What’s your name?” He asked in return. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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