Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. It was something you were supposed to return, so she raced through all the television shows that she had watched over the years. It’s Italian. The stench is everywhere. ” “I promise.
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