"So, wanton, I have found you!" "Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. 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's worth something to me; for I don't mind paying for revenge.
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