There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. "Given a chance, I can make bread and butter. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. No other white people within twenty miles. 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. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully.
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