270 “Curse that boy!” He chuckled and stomped the water. 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. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes.
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