The girl’s eyes never left his face. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. It had been her home for hundreds of years. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room.
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