She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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