Clientèle was of the most transitory character. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. "Oh! we've lost no time, as you perceive," replied Jack. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. 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.
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