No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you. Pragmar probably knew Mr. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath. 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. He reached for her, and she struck savagely. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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