The inn was a military haunt. 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. The chapel was crowded to excess. It is dull—deadly dull. “I ought to have done. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. This also struck her as odd. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury.
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