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. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. She twisted her fingers tightly. ToC Thames Darrell's arm having been submitted to the scrutiny of Mrs. Too much blood has been shed already. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying.
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