The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot.
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