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. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. Then her eyes flashed. It was not possible for him to have been deceived. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. "These writer chaps are queer birds. '—'Oh! yes we are,' says he. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee.
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