The noise was raucous. 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. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. ’ Which effectually silenced her.
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