Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. Me, you may have. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. “I mean it.
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