It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “To your room!” Michelle cowered, her face flushed with anger. The low ceiling made him seem abnormally tall. 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. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. ’ A derisive snort greeted this passage.
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