She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. E. “I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne.
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