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. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. I’ve been on the watch for you. ” Sydney looked at her doubtfully. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. To be no longer with Martha was strange.
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