Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. 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. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. You are to remain here until you are well. Well, one must hope, that was all.
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