” “Call it what you like,” Anna answered. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. 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. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. And they admired Kent sedulously from the windows. I didn’t know.
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