She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. 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. . Her heartbeat raced, her limbs turned to water, and it was only by a miracle and the strength of the arms that held her that she remained standing on her feet. A lucky escape. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. His father and mother are gone now. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one. “The smallest will do for me quite well. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned.
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