She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. Nothing seemed to be amiss. 4. She might even forgive him. 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. There's a letter for the head turnkey, Mr. ‘Imbecile.
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