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. CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone.
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