It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. For Mr Jarvis was beside himself when the letter come from Mr Charvill and he knew he’d lost you as well as Miss Mary. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. 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. He got off at Canal, and she exited behind the crowd. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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