The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. Miching Mallecho. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you.
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