The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. The theme was a masquerade. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. “We played at love-making in Paris. “I meant it. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from.
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