Something softened in Melusine’s chest. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. " "You might trust me," said Rachel, in an offended tone; "but never mind. It was, in fact, a group of interests quite unlike any other group, peculiar and special, and one to be thoroughly ashamed of. It is positively hateful to think of it. 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. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. I will have nothing to do with you.
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