The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. 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. To this day he and every one else thinks that he married Anna. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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