She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. ‘Poor Gerald has been very busy about your affairs this last week. . ’ Gerald eyed her. Enschede halted. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are lighter than old Nab's.
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