‘Who have lately joined us,’ she said, adding sotto voce, ‘A very great tragedy. ‘Melusine…Melusine. He smiled at Ruth as she turned away from the bed, smiled with both his mouth and eyes; and she knew that here would be a man of heart as well as of science. 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 would stare at her intensely when he was certain his parents were not looking in his direction. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Give me the books.
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