‘Civilian peace-keeping forces, you know. " This frankness rather subdued Spurlock. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm.
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