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. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. The rest of his attire was nondescript. ’ ‘Do not say so. That would be an unkind twist of fate.
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