Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. 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. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. "Yes—what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her.
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