Then she went in and up-stairs, hesitated on the landing, and finally, a little breathless and with an air of great dignity, opened the door and walked into Ann Veronica’s room. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. 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. " Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor and filth.
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