Spurling and Marvel rose too. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. Anna and her escort exchanged glances. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. 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. .
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