She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue.
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