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. CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. In doing so, he had to clamber up the immense heap of bricks and rubbish which now littered the floor, amounting almost to a car-load, and reaching up nearly to the top of the chimney-piece. There was no one to be seen in the great hall. Her elbows were ready. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines.
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