Don’t think I can’t sympathize and understand. I have only just left Wych Street. Well, my friend found us out, and would give no quarter. It was decrepit and too large. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. It’s not you—not a bit.
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