And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. But I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended. 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. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory.
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