I’m not a lovesick boy. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. She held out the foil. ” “If you want anything,” he said, “or get into any trouble, wire me. 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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