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. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. This is where my character, Lucia, is coming from. “I wouldn’t have been without this trip for worlds. F. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. I shall want you. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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