Anna never knew whither it had led her— sometimes she had fears. ‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. 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. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person. Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of those who addressed him.
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