She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. I would like to talk to you about this—soon.
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