Manning,” she said, “I HAVE a confession to make. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. Then, naturally, I went on talking. It would be too mortifying.
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