He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. "To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said.
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