She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. “I don’t know. The shock and distress were genuine. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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