Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring. 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. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly.
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