"Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. 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. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. "He understands me, you perceive," said Hogarth.
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