CHAPTER XXI. "I hope you don't imagine anything has gone wrong, Sir. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. 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. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream.
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