She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat. It was a mad half-hour. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. But I am here. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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