She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. CHAPTER XXI McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster.
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