She still kicked herself for it. 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. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. ’ She thrust him out of the room and made for the stairs. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. She kept thinking she was thinking about Mr. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day.
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