“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. 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. I had not seen the courtyard in many years and I was happy to dream of those times. He was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate. Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her.
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