‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. In fact he was thinking of other things. ‘But so also it is downstairs. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. She took to listening through closed doors.
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