To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. 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. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. David Courtlaw. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty.
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