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. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “Dear me!” he said. "Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet. "You know this is a pet project. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. You must remember, you've just begun to read; you haven't any comparisons. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch.
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