“You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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