“It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. ’ ‘People are silly. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. 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. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page.
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