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. There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both taboo) at his elbow. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. . "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow.
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