A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. You have been her guardian angel. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker.
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