Ann Veronica watched her and wondered about her. 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. He heard the woman talking again. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. "Thank you," she said, and left the office.
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