She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. ‘Very well, Kimble. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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