” “It certainly was,” she admitted. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. I had no curiosity of that kind. . F. 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. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. Before the question could be answered, a side-door was opened, and a very handsome woman of Amazonian proportions presented herself, and marched familiarly up to Mr. She crushed the letter in her hand. One must be on guard. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice.
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