“Where have you been, young lady? I know your kind, I know you sneak out every night! How long do you think it could go on? You little murdering slut! Whore! I found you out, found your blouse! Evidence! How many of your johns have you killed why you have lived at my house? Huh? They’re going to put you away for a long time, honey. ” “Why not?” “You see, if I do go home my father objects to the College, and as for typing —” “Don’t go home. . It's never a bad day that has a good ending. ” He stalked around the room. She despises me, I suppose. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays.
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