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. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much.
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