He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. Manning called. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby.
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