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. Plote was sleeping or deaf. Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her. No fear o' that. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something. " Emptiness; that was the doctor's initial sensation: his vitals had been whisked out of him and the earth from under his feet. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. He whispered in her ear.
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