Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. And severely hurt that pig, which was a very good thing. Practically all. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it.
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