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. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?" "Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. Capes kept obstinately stiff, and spoke between his teeth.
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