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. “The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth. Courtlaw,” Anna said, “and my solicitors, Messrs. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. ” “You will shake hands with me, please,” she begged. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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