To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. 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. It was she—— Anna’s nerves were not easily shaken, but she found herself suddenly clutching at the table for support. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. But she veiled her feelings. ‘What the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour.
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