He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. 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. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. Don't you see Mr. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty.
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