CHAPTER XXVI Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain rattle behind him. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. 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. They fell into step again.
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