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. “In any case, there is probably some mistake. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. You must say farewell to her, for I cannot. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts.
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