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. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. "He wouldn't hurt a rabbit. "Got the rooms mixed. She could feel her face turning beet red. If so I shall have to leave. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing.
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