But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. 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. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. ” She turned away.
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