“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. 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. Wood, popping her head through the window. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. "Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service.
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