“What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. I'm speaking of virtuous women—of WIVES, Madam. 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. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. ‘So it was.
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