The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. 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. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again.
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