Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. She looked at him as he fingered a small switch on the side of the helicopter’s door. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. “How will you live?” she appealed. I am the richest man in the world. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance.
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