" The girl's blood ran warmly for a minute. ” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. 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. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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