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. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant. ’ He threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder. She caught her breath, and her eyes were lit with a sudden terror. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman.
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