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. Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. By policemen one mustn’t shock.
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