She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. " "He'll scarcely need a plaister," replied Mrs. D. ’ ‘You see, I am of them,’ she said seriously, ‘but not with them—yet. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage.
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