Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. 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. Or felt it.
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