" Pain was stabbing him, now here, now there; pain was real enough; but he could not establish as a fact in his throbbing brain the presence of his aunt in the doorway. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. You won’t settle and I’m going mad. 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. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Majorities, right or wrong, dare not revolt.
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