I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super. It's so stuffy—and all that tobacco smoke!" He inspected his watch. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. Keep his arms down. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that.
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