Wood fared still worse. 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 have come for an explanation,” she said. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable. Mrs. “Michelle, I don’t ever want to hear you mention the subject you mentioned at dinner again. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out.
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