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. But oh, how weary I am! I know. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her temples. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. ‘You see, it is that I am a female, and you all are men.
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