“Lucy, you. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. 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. "No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. I should have thought my note cleared up everything.
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