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’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. There was nothing on the Tablets of Moses that forebade Spurlock marrying Ruth; there were no previous contracts.
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