There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. CHAPTER XIX. Ann Veronica wiped a scalpel, put a card over a watch-glass containing thin shreds of embryonic guinea-pig swimming in mauve stain, and dismantled her microscope. Surely Capes was different. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth.
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