‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. "Something's wrong. He whispered in her ear. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. "Still," went on the manager, "they are slaves in a sense; they are bought and sold until their original indebtedness is paid.
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