You were afraid of me, afraid that I should have been shocked, afraid of the scandal. 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. "Come—the kiss!" cried Austin, endeavouring to pass his arm familiarly round the Amazon's waist.
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