” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. Spurlock began to watch for Ruth's coming in the morning; first, with negligent interest, then with positive eagerness. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. 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. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. Not entirely. ‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand.
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