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. “That is where my cervix should be. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. Look at it, I say. It’s the only clean way for us.
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