She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. “I was sick of the make-believe. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully.
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