The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. He—wanted to marry me. 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. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. ‘I’m following a scent. My politics in that matter wouldn’t be to give women votes. People who would not go.
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