It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. S. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. ‘So are you. 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. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. ‘Wait! No time for that. After all, why should I care what strangers think?" Ruth asked with sudden heat. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals.
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