” Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. I am going to ask him to finish it. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. 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.
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