Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. 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. “So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. Witness Browning.
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