“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Oh the back of her arm she found the faintest down of hair in the world. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. "But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you von't live to pay me. I’m in this apartment and looking for work because—Well, what else can I do, when my father practically locks me up?” “I know,” said Mr. To be ill and helpless. ” “I thought Mr. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint.
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