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"I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. “If you say so, Lucy. 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. Night and day have been alike to me. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. It was not for a week or a month. Not us.
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