But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She had one idea, she found, very clear in her mind—that she would get a Research Scholarship, and so contrive another year in the laboratory. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. Courtlaw is looking after you, Miss Pellissier,” she said.
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