‘But I was not there. 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. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. It’s all nonsense.
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