He could not quite make her out; a new type. 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. “How can you change people’s ideas if you have no power?” said Kitty Brett. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair.
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