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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. ’ The crack in the iron front widened a little, and the general was obliged to clamp his jaws tight against the rise of a pain too well remembered. “I don’t take any prisoners, John! You do not want this life!” “Yes I do! I am an adult. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair.
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