His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. 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. Give me but leave to try. “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend.
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