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‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She was always initiating petty breaches of discipline. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent.
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