Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. She had one idea, she found, very clear in her mind—that she would get a Research Scholarship, and so contrive another year in the laboratory. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said. She loved to be told to do things. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. “Okay. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. It was his belief that the French had enough troubles of their own in these difficult times without bothering to nose out British business. "I believe he is conscious," she answered.
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