She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides—but you've put them all out of my head. And this though he was evidently passionately in love with her. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other.
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