Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. ” “You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. So the talk went on.
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