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. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Have you anything to ask me?” Ann Veronica readjusted her mind hastily. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool.
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