He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. Sebastian looked up and stood. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. I—In fact, I dislike him extremely. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. ‘Exactly like my father. Little by little, she stopped hating him. I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now.
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