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. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. Did you hear us through the archway, talking cookery?” They went up by the lift in silence. But one must disguise oneself.
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