There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. ‘I begin to ask myself why it is that I wish to become of these people. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. I undid his coat, and I took it from his pocket.
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