\"Where are you going?\" She cried. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. “You’ll do no such thing, Sheila. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. We'll get together this afternoon; and you can pretend that I am your father. “You must fetch a doctor,” she said. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. The dress of the dwarfish Jew was not, however, favourable to this expedient.
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