She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. “I don’t think I shall. Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. “Mr. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
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