It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far
recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under
the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. All along the
wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in
attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a
military review scheduled for this afternoon. But it does not sound as if the
girl that wears the name resembles either of her parents. Tea in
the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend. It
was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed
warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders,
and waited with an appearance of affection. He could not pull her soul apart now to
satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he
had put her outside that circle.
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