He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. Presently he felt motion. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work.
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