“I feel quite sure that Mrs. ” His eyes were burning. “Who is there to care and—John. ‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. 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. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there.
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