She opened her mouth and inhaled water. Sheppard. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. 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. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. Never glance sideways at man. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey.
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