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. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply.
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