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. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. For the present the desire to fly was gone. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. Afterwards was the most delightful part of all!.
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