He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. And then the students went into the long laboratory and followed out these facts in almost living tissue with microscope and scalpel, probe and microtome, and the utmost of their skill and care, making now and then a raid into the compact museum of illustration next door, in which specimens and models and directions stood in disciplined ranks, under the direction of the demonstrator Capes. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. Civil engineering. To-night we leave for Marseilles.
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