Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. 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 other lay unconscious in a heap.
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