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. He turned round to keep Anna out by force if possible, but he was too late. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. ’ ‘You’re going to break into the house? You’re mad. Such a mystery as you have set up. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. But it was only six-thirty.
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