Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. “She finds lying up so much very irksome. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. 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. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old.
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