In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. Michelle answered the door. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were “fairish,” or “very fairish indeed,” or “high above the normal female standard,” hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. She kicked both of her legs with the force of a bull, sending a blow into Rhea’s borrowed legs. The lady grasped it more firmly and turned it upon Hilary.
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