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. But do not awaken my apprehension, unless you have good cause for so doing. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. Indeed, he told me nothing at all. Get me an interview with her. She was clear there were no other minds like them in all the world. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. I am so much obliged to you for your projected benevolence. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed.
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