with you. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. 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. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. " He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. .
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