Again silence. The aunt laughed. 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. And still you interest yourself in my affairs. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established. They litter up the room. John’s parents were won over. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback.
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