"Took down the folds of her hair--shook it round her face and the pool repeated her thus veiled." Supposing that in the month of April, 1886, you had arrived, a guest foreseen, at the pleasant ivy-muffled dwelling in Bournemouth, which had recently adopted the name of Skerryvore, and that you had been permitted to enter its doors--you might account yourself a somewhat favoured person. For the master of the house, "that rickety and cloistered spectre," as he termed himself, the "pallid brute who lived in Skerryvore like a weevil in a biscuit," might be invisible for the nonce--shut upstairs, forbidden even to speak for fear of inducing hemorrhage. Or again, you might yourself be afflicted wi…
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