She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. There was a short, red-faced, resolute youth who inherited an authoritative attitude upon bacteriology from his father; a Japanese student of unassuming manners who drew beautifully and had an imperfect knowledge of English; and a dark, unwashed Scotchman with complicated spectacles, who would come every morning as a sort of volunteer supplementary demonstrator, look very closely at her work and her, tell her that her dissections were “fairish,” or “very fairish indeed,” or “high above the normal female standard,” hover as if for some outbreak of passionate gratitude and with admiring retrospects that made the facetted spectacles gleam like diamonds, return to his own place. “He looks as though he did, at any rate. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. of like, one seventy-five or something?” She looked at Michelle with worry. “I’ve been to hear you lots of times. ” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs.
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