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 are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. With his gimblet he contrived to bore a number of holes so close together that at last one end of the bar, being completely pierced through, yielded; and pursuing the same with the other extremity, it fell out altogether. Away in London even now Capes was packing and preparing; Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire.
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