But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. Not at all. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Those whom he retained about his person, or placed in offices of trust, were for the most part convicted felons, who, having returned from transportation before their term had expired, constituted, in his opinion, the safest agents, inasmuch as they could neither be legal evidences against him, nor withhold any portion of the spoil of which he chose to deprive them.
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