Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. 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. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs.
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