With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. ’ ‘Tchah! Better a doubtful welcome here than a confounded French convent. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. Never was there another girl like this one. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. 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. She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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