“If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. 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 were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “I can tell you are thinking about it. It generalized everything she put to it.
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