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. They were both dressed in every respect alike. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. I’ve—dreads.
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