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. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. The envelope might contain only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts. They weren’t very chummy with one another but Sheila 113 didn’t expect much from a foster daughter as long as she worked hard, very hard, to earn her keep.
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