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“Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. 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. That is what I must do.
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