A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. “My God!” he said again. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street.
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