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. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally.
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