At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Think better of it. But I will never—never return. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. 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. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham.
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