But there was some, after all.
Poor Angel's so sad. She doesn't quite know what we'll do next, for we
haven't much money left."
"She's got a job of char--I mean, typin' to-day anyhow," said Jane.
"Yes, she's gone to a hotel, where a gentleman talks a story out loud,
and she puts it down on paper. She's been three times; but it's so sad;
the story is a beautiful one, only she doesn't think he'll live to
finish it. He came here to get well, because there's sunshine, and
flowers; but his wife cried on Angel's shoulder, in the next room to
his, and said he would never, never get well any more. Angel didn't
tell me, for I don't think she likes me to know sad things; but I heard
her saying it all to a lady she works for sometimes, a lady who knows
the poor man. I don't remember his name, but he's what they call a
Genius."
"It's like that out here on the Riviera," said Jane, shaking her head so
gloomily that the ruffled cap wobbled. "Lots of ill people come, as well
as those who wants fun, and throwin' thur money about. In the midst of
loife we are in death.
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