That’s where you go wrong. Get the pole out of your ass. 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. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Gerald said calmly. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed.
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