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. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. "You want me, then?" she said. Clear water gave away to gray as she waded deeper, feeling her slippers on rock.
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