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. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Ramage did not know. Ruth returned to the table. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love.
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