“Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. 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. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You should have gone to Charvill. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. She asked the girl to fetch Mr.
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