“I think,” he said, “that I am right. 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. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. D'ye hear how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it ourselves presently. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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