So inside there’s a large open square centered by a high willow whose fronds hang a few meters above the dun-coloured floorboards which run to the edge of each of four adjoining, thematically-distinct alcoves. (It’s actually more of a rhombus inside one of the obtuse angles of which you’d find yourself standing at the entrance, across from the other obtuse side where the alcoves are, but you get the idea.) There’s a statue of Shakespeare’s Shylock to your left; its back is to the pale pine fence which abuts the house’s rear façade of gray brick bedecked with candleabra, an enscribed mahogany panel, and shelving upon which stand bronze statuettes so polished and liquescent you’d think