He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. 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. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. "I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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