’ A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. She took to listening through closed doors. If I do not look after her, she has no one. 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. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive.
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