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’ ‘The nuns?’ she said, gazing at him innocently. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. 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. Master, your humble servant. Give him his medicine every half hour. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side.
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