More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. 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. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. She did her best to do this. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered.
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