I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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