She infused menace into her voice. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber. I said, ‘It is no use your telling me about this walk and pretend I’ve been told about the ball, because you haven’t. Her disapproval was obvious enough. Montressor’s guests were. “Really,” she said. 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.
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