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. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. ” He shook his head, and his eyes and the mouth under the black mustache wrinkled with his smile. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. Kneebone said, just now. “Who can tell?” she said.
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