She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. Kneebone, Mrs. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. She had delicate oval features, light, laughing blue eyes, a pretty nez retroussé, (why have we not the term, since we have the best specimens of the feature?) teeth of pearly whiteness, and a brilliant complexion, set off by rich auburn hair, a very white neck and shoulders,—the latter, perhaps, a trifle too much exposed. 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. At length, however, she threw herself off; and Jack carefully guiding the rope she landed in safety.
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