He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She told him the story of her parents, her marriage to Iovelli, the loss of her baby, the kidnapping after the miscarriage. 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. Sebastian looked up and stood. It took a deal of thought to cast a comprehensive cable, for it had to include where Spurlock was, what he was doing, and the fact that O'Higgins's letter of credit would not now carry him and Spurlock to San Francisco. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood.
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