Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. 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. But that possibility had been anticipated. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that.
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