“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. 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. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. He was there concealed, waiting her return.
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