Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. 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. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. How she needed him! Next moment, she had wrenched open the door, and was confronting her guard. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped.
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