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. When you don’t have any fingers left, I take a toe. Wood. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. They carried no more than bare subsistence wages; and they demanded all her time and energy. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. You go cheer him up.
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