“Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. 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 destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her.
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