She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. I have only one question to ask you. She realized that no man had ever placed a mantle of respect upon her as Sebastian did; respect for more than just her pretty face and her now lost ability to bear children. 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, if anything, a little above the average,” Brendon admitted. I don’t. “To my chagrin, I have. As far as I can, I belong to them all.
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