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. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. That is very certain. ‘Bon.
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