He hated horizons. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. In lieu of it, he still adhered to the sleek black crop, which, throughout life, formed a distinguishing feature in his appearance.
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