That sounds like the moral.' 'She could have seen me,' Victor threw out an irritable suggestion.

The idea of the recent propinquity set hatred in motion.
'Scarcely likely.

I'm told she sits looking on her lap, under the beetling shade, until she hears an order for tinctures or powders, or a mixture that strikes her fancy.

It's possible to do more suicidal things than sit the afternoons in a chemist's shop and see poor creatures get their different passports to Orcus.' Victor stepped mutely beneath the windows of the bellied glass-urns of chemical wash.

The woman might be inside there now! She might have seen his figure in the shop-mirror! And she there! The wonder of it all seemed to be, that his private history was not walking the streets.
The thinness of the partition concealing it, hardly guaranteed a day's immunity: because this woman would live in London, in order to have her choice of a central chemist's shop, where she could feed a ghastly imagination on the various recipes...