I've got to know why. But he. I want you to be my wife. ” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. ” He pushed her a dozen yards along the greasy pavement with flat, well-trained hands that there seemed to be no opposing. 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.
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