He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. 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. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly.
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