He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. “He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor.
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