The Leads. . 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. Her likeness to her sister gave him at first almost a shock; a moment afterwards he was conscious of a wonderful sense of relief. It is dull—deadly dull. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. Perhaps she was. After all, life had still its pulsations. Then he put the paper by. “You’re great, Lucy! I had no idea you were so great!” John exclaimed.
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