Explore "The Square Emerald" by Edgar Wallace on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
AT that moment Greta Gurden's bedroom reeked with the pungent scent of frying sausages that wafted in from the little gas--ring in her "dining --hall." When Greta was her own provider, she was economical to the point of meanness. She, who would hesitate languidly between Sole Marnier and Sole a la bonne femme, who chose the most delicate and expensive of ices, and who had a pretty knowledge of the virtues of relative vintages, when she had an escort to foot the bill, could find, in the intimacy of her flat, the ingredients of complete satisfaction hanging from a hook at the local butcher's.
She had been allowed to get up that afternoon, and found that she could drag herself from room to room without pain or inconvenience. Mrs. Hobbs had gone home, having a husband of her own to serve, and Greta was left alone, and was glad.