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. It was locked. "I should never have been what I am, but for you. ” She glanced shyly at the mirror above her dressing-table, and then about her at the furniture, as though it might penetrate to the thoughts that peeped in her mind. ‘And me—’ ‘You, mademoiselle, are more trouble than you’re worth, and I’ll thank you to —’ ‘Hilary, don’t,’ said Lucy, and Melusine’s rising temper cooled a little.
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