It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. 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. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Anna stepped back at once with a little gasp of relief.
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