There were shadows under his eyes. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. 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. That’s why we are here. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish.
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