‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. 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. It does not matter to him either way. There was another little thing he had to say. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass.
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