She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. 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.
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