In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. It was painful to want him so much. ‘She wants me to marry her. “For I know that you love Ennison.
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