82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him.
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