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. Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. What you say is probably all true and necessary. The tropical dawn is swift. I got a rusty bolt cutter. The way—the way we are led on! We are taught to believe we are free in the world, to think we are queens. ‘Bête.
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