’ He nodded in the direction of her pistol. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked.
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