‘Now see here, missie. Montague Hill. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. Here one might live the life of golden days. . . The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger.
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