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Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. His voice had broken. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. 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 rascally knave sent you to become a French nun?’ Looking positively terrified, the girl nodded dumbly. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. It was his tall stance and his pale skin that drew him out of the crowd.
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