Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. “Can’t you SEE how things are?” she said. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. 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 would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation.
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