I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. “I am. ‘A devil is just what you are. ” Anna was silent. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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