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. E. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows.
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