‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. I never see them, they never even call. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and—come in. 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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