She was poor. 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. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. Fear nothing. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him.
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