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. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. Then he turned to Anna. " The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. That would not help her. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. “You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things.
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