"Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Ann Veronica wiped a scalpel, put a card over a watch-glass containing thin shreds of embryonic guinea-pig swimming in mauve stain, and dismantled her microscope. He was all alone, like herself. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes.
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