“I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. The boy she had loved was gone. 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.
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