Wood started to his feet. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham. That is what I’ve had on my conscience. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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