“The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. 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. The poor fellow's half smothered.
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