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. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. But, it can't be helped.
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