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. Sheppard," cried the carpenter's wife bitterly; "and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. "You are my prisoner, Jack.
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