Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack.
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