Everybody looked askance at everybody else. “That was a moment of madness,” she said. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. She saw his eyes glaze over. Did you know you’re very maternal? Damn, you’re more maternal than my Mom. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. 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. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. 1 through 1.
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