Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. 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. "But you've done well to trust me. If he hasn't a job for you, he'll know someone who has. From the point of view of most things in the world of employment which a woman can do reasonably well and earn a living by, you’re unripe and half-educated. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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