Then he sensed the trap. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. “I want to be your friend,” he said. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. just furtive meetings. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street.
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