Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. 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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