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 would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Holding a link into the place, which had the appearance of a deep pit, Blueskin noticed a body richly dressed.
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