Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. "Leave go!" cried Jack, struggling violently, and raising his hand, "or I'll maul you for life. 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. He looked at her guiltily. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. All superfine holland. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. I shall quit this roof to-morrow. . Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. She could even think of what had happened. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked.
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