The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. "But are you really there?" "No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. 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 scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. He whispered in her ear.
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