I believed that our marriage was genuine. This won’t do. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. He loved you. I came to the Beck’s house. 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. Get nothing out of me. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son.
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