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. Darting to a window looking in that direction, Thames threw it up, and discharged both his pistols, but without effect. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill.
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