‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. 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’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat.
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