He knew that particular butterfly.

He had seen them by thousands once in a field in Corfu, long ago on an Easter holiday, when he had been abroad with Wentworth.

They had all glinted together in the sunshine, wheeling together, sinking together, rising together like an army of fairies.
How heavy the book was on his knee.
He had not the energy to turn another page.

Yes, he must.

The doctor would be disappointed if he found the book open at the same place when he came back.