There happened that year to be an unusual proportion of girls and women in the advanced laboratory, perhaps because the class as a whole was an exceptionally small one. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. I am not afraid that you may try to make love to me. As a consequence of its small size, it was possible to get along with the work on a much easier and more colloquial footing than a larger class would have permitted. 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. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. I have work there.
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