She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Smith obeyed. They sat in the front row. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She had gladly lowered her eyes as she had been instructed to in front of the fine ladies and lords, as she was more interested in their clothing and fripperies than their faces. " After a moment Spurlock said: "Perhaps I am an ungrateful dog. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. He looked at her guiltily.
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