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. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood.
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