‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. 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. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. It would not burden him with any obligation.
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