She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. He would go there. Jack! Mon dieu, but he was unarmed. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form.
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