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. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. For a few moments Mr. In fact, it would not surprise me to discover that they were both Leonardo’s. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. I had left Paris.
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