’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. “Indeed, no,” he answered. ‘This is not love, Marthe. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. ’ ‘Well, let us leave your name for the present. 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.
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