About two weeks ago. 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. "You can shave him, you know. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. “Do you mind very much?” He shook his head. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock.
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