get in. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. “I would not have you go for anything,” she answered. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. Manning in fancy costume, as though he was a doll. “I have never forgotten. “Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another.
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