So she approached him with sandwiches. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. I take the life out of men. I was his wife. “I expect it is pretty well in shreds by now. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. I wish to rise in the world, mademoiselle, and you are going to help me.
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