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. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. “John, we should be getting out of here. He was unable to possess Lucy's hand as he had in the cinema, separated by the annoying chasm between the van's plush seats. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor.
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