’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. She looked at him mournfully. 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. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God.
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