" "And, so Jack Sheppard has sent back Shotbolt in this pickle," said Langley. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. 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. But it was hopelessly hard to put. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone.
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