The doctor smoked his pipe thoughtfully. “I can see you and Anna groaning and nodding your grave heads together. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. They litter up the room. 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. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered.
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