“Life is upsetting enough, without the novels taking a share,” said Mr. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. 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. He whispered in her ear. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack.
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