“You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. "Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand. 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. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth.
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