She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. "The danger's past," whispered Bess. She still had her letter of credit. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. "These writer chaps are queer birds.
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