Dollis Hill revisited 324 XII. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. “Alice—Alice gone dotty, and all over kids. "Eggs for me! You mistake, child. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. 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.
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