She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. I don’t want to hear you. 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. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms.
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