So she approached him with sandwiches. Jeez! It was about time. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. "But I'm a blackguard, too, Ruth. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces.
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