White?” she asked, laughing. The blood will rest on your head. But come in, dear. How long have you been playing?” Lucy breathed an internal sigh of relief. 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 eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze.
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