There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. "It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. Tears sprang to her eyes. After the day in the library, he constantly demonstrated his affections; Gianfrancesco had never done that. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. 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.
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