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 nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “Very much as usual,” said Ramage. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair.
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