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She was constantly surrounded by guards and was never allowed to leave the motel... Jennifer was told that she would not be released until she gave up her beliefs in the Buddhist faith... her kidnappers also threatened that if she went to the police they would kidnap her again and that her family would have her committed to a mental institution for the rest of her life.
He had acknowledged their difference without really talking about it. He hadn't tried to be everything to him. Tears came to Oliver's eyes. He stared straight ahead and let them slide down his cheeks. Wiping them away would have been disrespectful. No one seemed to notice. Oliver returned to the motel and slept twelve hours.
He was from Ten Mile Creek, south of Pittsburgh; what had happened to him? Joe decided to cut through Cat Hollow and over to Roscoe on Route 17. He followed 17 west, taking his time, enjoying the October colors. He had lunch in Hancock and stayed overnight in a motel outside Painted Post. The next afternoon he was in Ten Mile Creek, coal country.
He dropped me, the dog, and the rig off at a motel in nearby St. Ignes. He also left me his number at the station, in case I needed help getting back on the road. The following afternoon, the policeman pounded the wheel back into shape, fixed the derailleur, replaced spokes, and bolted steel bars over the aluminum which attached the trailer to the bicycle.
In Yarmouth, he stopped for breakfast at the Calendar Islands Motel on Route 1. Two dining rooms were filled with elderly couples and the families of L. L. Bean executives. He signed for a table and waited in line. It was pleasant to stand there as though nothing had just happened.
Joe Mauser and his officers were billeted in what had once been a motel on the old road between Kingston and Woodstock. There was a shower and a tiny kitchenette in each cottage. That was one advantage in a fracas held in an area where there were plenty of facilities.
Then we drove east by northeast into Los Angeles, the high desert, and southern Nevada. Rama had divided us into four groups, with three cars per group and two or three disciples per car. The groups caravanned separately, and we met two or three times a day, typically at a Denny's restaurant or at a Best Western motel.
If you ever perceive me in a negative light, you are seeing nothing more than a reflection." I pulled into a parking lot of a motel. I found myself looking for cars from Rama's tour group. I found myself wondering where the disciples my friends were and what they were doing. For years we had been close, like a tribe. Suddenly I had an inspiration: set out across America and rejoin my tribe!
He was rested and tan, increasingly coiled for some kind of action. He received a postcard from Jacky saying that she was living in a motel but was about to move into a house. Her job was a lot of work but going well. She missed him. He sent a housewarming card to the new address and said that he missed her, too. No harm in that. Besides, it was true.
He had been heading there all the time but hadn't known it. He collected himself and drove back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan get to Francesca. Three long days of driving later, he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel in Eugene where he had stayed when he had met his father. Seattle was only six hours away.
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