My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. “The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely. She sat perfectly still, however. 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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