“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. As to following, there was no one. But if we had gone under—!” They regarded one another silently, and Ann Veronica had one of her penetrating flashes. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. If I told you the facts, I expect, since you are in love with me, you’d explain the whole business as being very fine and honorable for me—the Higher Morality, or something of that sort. The area was sparsely populated. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant.
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