"That's false!" cried Mrs. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “No one has a better right than I to be with you. 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 sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. " "Afraid?" "Yes.
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