Mr. 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. A stiff, formally-cut coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with rows of plate buttons, each of the size of a crown piece, on the sleeves, pockets, and skirts, reached the middle of his legs; and his costume was completed by the silver-hilted sword at his side, and the laced hat under his left arm. The picture of her flashed across the doctor's vision magically. It was the size of my palm. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. She seemed honestly glad to see him. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes.
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