They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. Mr. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. 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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