"I would treat him as you treated his father, Sir Rowland. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. His name was Peter. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. ‘Woof!’ uttered Trodger, gazing at the lady in some awe. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. She gloried in it: he needed her. Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde.
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