Sheppard, faintly. Never really thought about Him—people don’t. 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. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun.
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