"Because it's not like you," was her answer. 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. It is like a second honeymoon. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. ’ The woman shrugged helpless shoulders, looking to her husband. . She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. These sham ideals and advanced notions.
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