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Nissr trembled, hesitated, lifted a few inches, settled back once more. Again the buzzer sounded. The noise of rapid feet became audible above, in the upper galleries. Ferrara called into the phone: "It's a British destroyer, sir! She's just rounded the point, three miles south. Signals up for us to surrender!" "Machine-guns against naval ordnance!" gritted the Master savagely. "Surrender?"
He took Daylight's pace with joy, and even dreamed, at first, that he would play the white man out. The first hundred miles he looked for signs of weakening, and marveled that he saw them not. Throughout the second hundred miles he observed signs in himself, and gritted his teeth and kept up. And ever Daylight flew on and on, running at the gee-pole or resting his spell on top the flying sled.
"Between Lossing and Skipjack siding if we haven't passed the siding in the last two or three minutes. I've been too busy to notice," was the reply. "And you say you were on the engine? Why the devil didn't you call your man down?" "I knocked him down," gritted the superintendent, savagely, "and I'd have beat his face in for him if there hadn't been two of them.
There was a yell, a scream, that echoed out, reverberated, and went racketing through the house, and Jimmie Dale leaped forward over a table, sending it crashing to the floor. The man had reeled back against the wall, clutching at a shattered wrist, staring into the flashlight's eye, white-faced, jaw dropped, lips working in mingled pain and fear. "Harve Thoms you, eh?" gritted Jimmie Dale.
His face was burning, the flames searing his flesh. He tried to reach a hand up to ease the pain and found the hand gripped firmly. He struggled, and Steve's voice said, "Take it easy, Rick. We'll be through in a minute." The boy subsided and gritted his teeth. If Steve was there, it was okay. But why didn't Steve put out the fire? "Don't move," Steve said sharply.
"And I hope to goodness he stays!" gritted Mary V, slamming the receiver on its hook. "With dad acting the way he did and treating Johnny like a dog, and with Johnny acting worse than dad does and treating me as if I were to blame for everything, I just wish men had never been born. I don't see what use they are in the world, except to drive a person raving distracted.
With an effort he roused himself squared himself there in the corral for the final battle with himself. "It is now or never," he gritted through clenched teeth. "Now, and alone. She won't face the situation squarely. It is woman's way, calmy to ignore the issue, to push it aside as the ill of a future day."
He gritted his teeth. At least he was no longer losing blood. He wasn’t getting any weaker. But every now and then his vision fogged and he had to shake his head to clear it. The pilotless snapper-boat made another slow run, then put on speed and flashed back to the group of boats near the cruiser. Another boat detached itself from the squadron and moved toward the asteroid.
Rather by instinct than in consequence of any order given, we formed ourselves in a hollow square, with Aina lying apparently lifeless in the centre, and then with gritted teeth we did our work. The lines of guards melted before the disintegrators like rows of snow men before a licking flame. A Terrible Battle.
Would they think of him? Probably not, or if they did it would be to say, "Poor Lawrence! It's a pity he's blind. He has real talent." He gritted his teeth. Well, he had real talent, and they should know it. She should know it. He would show her such carving as she had never thought possible. After all, was her love to him, Lawrence the artist, the capable, blindness-conquering artist?
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