She opened it and imbibed. Certainly not a gentlewoman. She ran towards the arched stone door, her mouth forming an “O” of surprise as she realized that she was in the high turret of an ocean side castle. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed 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. " And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure.
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