The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others.

I'm headed to the lab to make sure my cell culture hasn't died.

Haue I not bene / Thy Pupill long? Haſt thou not learn'd me hovv / To make Perfumes? Diſtill? Preſerue?

Yet already it felt to Jill and Eustace as if all their dangers in the dark and heat and general smotheriness of the earth must have been only a dream.