“I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. 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. She had called the police on them anonymously.
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