I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. “I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. "What in the world is it?" he asked.
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