The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Of you, I mean. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. F.
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