“No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. 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.
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