Loved his memory still, for all he knew. But he reckoned without his host. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. 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. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.
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