Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. Sara Darnell was a sprightly, svelte twenty-five year old who was known for serving detentions at meter maid frequency, if only to be taken marginally more seriously by the predominantly male Lincoln High Science Department. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Again he rushed. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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