Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. 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 had almost chosen to prostitute herself rather than live in that animal state once, but had found a warm cave in Kentucky just as situations had grown truly desperate. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side.
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