He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. 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. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "At all hazards then then you shall know the truth," replied the woollen-draper, in a tone of affected solicitude,—"but are you really prepared?" "Quite—quite!" replied Winifred. Satisfied, however, that she did not notice him, Jonathan glided away as noiselessly as he came, and ascended another short flight of stairs leading to the garret. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. What you say is probably all true and necessary. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray.
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