’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. "I warn you, if you do not send for a doctor immediately, you will have cause to regret it," Ruth declared vigorously. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés.
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