” “It is a conspiracy,” she exclaimed. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. Then suddenly he seized a new preparation bottle that stood upon his table and contained the better part of a week’s work—a displayed dissection of a snail, beautifully done—and hurled it across the room, to smash resoundingly upon the cemented floor under the bookcase; then, without either haste or pause, he swept his arm along a shelf of re-agents and sent them to mingle with the debris on the floor. As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. Some one may observe us.
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