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. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. “I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him.
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