Only she is not Madame Valade at all. 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. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. The ruffian's companions took his part.
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