The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink. It was then, I am sure, empty. “I’m fine,” she said softly. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. "Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure.
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