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. An hour was then passed in conversation as to the possibility of rendering any assistance to Jack; in deploring his unhappy destiny; and in the consideration of the course to be pursued in reference to Jonathan Wild. The police are concerned in it in either event. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. It was a “territory” back then, and many a Frenchman and a Redskin both had been devoured in those caves.
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