Leonardo had not taught her to do so. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. “Well——” She stopped short. “Mr. Sailors would leave them at the trader's. “It jars. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. ‘That’s just it.
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