“He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. . “Wonderful man!” said Ann Veronica, reassured, and stroking his cheek with her finger. 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 refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth.
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