There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. Paris, 18. Mrs Sindlesham raised her brows. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly.
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