“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably. Never mind. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. Think of those days in Paris. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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