She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. ‘Keep watch, Jack! If Captain Roding fails to keep the man out of the house, run upstairs and warn me quickly.
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