And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. 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. “Come,” she said. . For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious.
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