"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. 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.
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