There was also a curious interview at a big hotel with a middle-aged, white-powdered woman, all covered with jewels and reeking of scent, who wanted a Companion. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. But, after all, it will be different. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. This threat terrified Ann Veronica so much that she declared with sobs and vehemence that she would never come home again, and for a time both talked at once and very wildly.
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