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 was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. "Put it under my pillow," he said. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. ” “Where?” Courtlaw asked quickly.
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