“I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather because of my own difficulty. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart. 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. I’ll be ready in a moment.
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