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. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. This young man did not drink because he sought the false happiness that lured men to the bottle.
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