CHAPTER XIX. . 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. But God did not put you next door. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as he expected, the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having succeeded in tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk so far down the entry as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper windows of the house. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. It isn’t. ’ ‘With ease, mademoiselle,’ he countered, catching her blade. " "Do girls have puppy-love?" "Land sakes, yes! On the average they are worse than the boys. ” Ann Veronica reflected. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. Our ideal had fallen. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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