‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. She had been working upon a ribbon of microtome sections of the developing salamander, and he came to see what she had made of them.
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