She had not thought anything could equal her despair at that moment. 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 was the junior of both his sisters, co-educated and much broken in to feminine society. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. “Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said.
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