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The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. 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. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good. It was the incendiary intellectuals of the bourgeoisie, with their militant ideas of revolution, who had raised the populace to a pitch of violence resulting in cases of wholesale slaughter—such as had overtaken the Valades. I was quite as much annoyed as you were to see Mr. Annabel thought, and thought again. And then if some day Capes wanted her—saw fit to alter his views upon friendship. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. The Ragged Edge. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome.
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