Mike was already on dishwasher duty when John rang the doorbell. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. 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. They almost made me feel like they were mine. She stabbed him with her canines. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark.
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