’ ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly. 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. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. It’s just life, pure life, life nascent, running clear and strong. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away. She would compose extremely lucid and honorable explanations. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels.
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