It was a huge stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. Except that this music we have been swimming in is divine. “I think she would,” she decided. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. ‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. Day after day for a measured hour in the lecture-theatre, with elaborate power and patience, Russell pieced together difficulty and suggestion, instance and counter-instance, in the elaborate construction of the family tree of life. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. "I guessed as much.
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