Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage. ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. 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. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past.
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