” He stepped back as though he had received a blow. Your sister! Great God, how like she is to what you were!” Annabel looked around her nervously. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. 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. “Have you ever seen Annabel with him?” she asked.
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