Drink the toast, Jack. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. 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. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never.
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