Explore "On The Night Express" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The photograph slipped from Dora's fingers and lay neglected on the floor. She turned towards Nita with a face that was grave and not altogether free from a certain cold suspicion. She was no longer the smiling little blonde, like a piece of delicate Dresden china, but a woman who was conscious of something in the atmosphere that was sinister.
"Nita," she said. "If I didn't know you as well as I do. I should suspect that you were trying to take advantage of me. I don't understand this at all."