“We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. His literary instincts began to stir. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. Not choosing to hazard so great a fall, Jack turned to examine the building, to see whether any more favourable point of descent presented itself, but could discover nothing but steep walls, without a single available projection.
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