He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains.
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