She never could recall that part of the evening very distinctly. A
confused recollection that she found the pillar very comfortable for a
while; that finally the ridges in it hurt her cheek; that she had one
or two lucid intervals between her naps, in one of which she concluded
that it would be better to take those gloves off for fear of marking
her face; and that while she was doing so she caught a sentence or
two of the lecture--something like this: "This one essential point of
difference is in itself convincing proof of the theory which I hold.
The difference in the formation of the hands is a difficulty which
no theory of development can overcome." These few insignificant items
were all which remained in her memory: then the little gentleman's
voice gradually took to her ears the form of a chant: his "theory," as
the simple rustic said about a matter less abstruse, "might be wrong,
but it was awful soothin'," and pleasant dreams of having four hands,
all available, and not of the objectionable sort whose bones the
professor was dangling, beguiled the time for Marjory--how long she
knew not.
What woke her? Surely somebody laughed? She started up: the lecture
was over at last; John, with a penitent face, was hastening back to
her; the people who had sat nearest her were gone, and so were her
gloves!
"What, in thunder--" said John forcibly, looking at her face in blank
amazement.
Pages:
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242