“Does he know that I am involved with someone?” “Of course he knows. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. Let me say it to you. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. Practically.
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