He was so seldom wrong. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. Her efforts were vain. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny.
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