Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. 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. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper.
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