A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. People running, screaming, hiding. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time.
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