Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. And Capes was thinking that his wife was a supremely beautiful woman. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. 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. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. “No, those are my brother’s dog tags.
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