That was what she was trying to make him understand. 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. . "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. He inspected the formidable array of rifles and at length walked over to the register.
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