‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. It's all very well to read him a lesson, and teach him obedience; but you've gone far enough for that. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. 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. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. They had a universe to talk about—two universes. It was decrepit and too large.
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