“DEAR MR. 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. She discovered him sitting upon the floor beside his open trunk. “I MUST speak to you,” he said. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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