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The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. "You open it, Ruth. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. Anna, do you not see that the Countess is sitting alone?” She rose, and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband’s back. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. \" Said John as he piled the papery remnants of their meal onto the tray. 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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