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. Expiation. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. Her faith in human beings revived. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping.
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