"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. "Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as much mine as yours, for that matter. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. 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. “He was a friend of your sister’s, was he not?” “I never heard her mention his name,” she answered. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. ‘Wait a minute, though.
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