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But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently. 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. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different.

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