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. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. “In the event of his death we should require you at once to attend at the inquest. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it.
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