It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. 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. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. I'll tell you what. He was beginning to think about her inordinately. Melusine seized her chance. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow.
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