” “So far,” she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, “my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. ” She paused for a moment. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato.
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