To his relief, Mrs Sindlesham stepped into the breach, grasping her cane and rising painfully from her chair. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. 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. ‘Precisely. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. "The gentleman under the table," she answered. I wouldn't accept my life from him.
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