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. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly.
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