Come and see him, Lucia. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. " "That's impossible," replied Jack.
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