The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. “Have you any money?” “Lots,” Anna answered laconically. And if I don’t, I go mad.
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