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. Hill, Meysey Hill. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. My goodness gracious. F.
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