She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. “It’s your birthday today, May Day.
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