He had hurt her. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared. She had looked forward to an explanation. 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. ’ ‘Gone off?’ repeated Melusine, her wrongs rising up to tear into her chest.
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