“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. Manning. There was a hint of tears in her voice. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. Father— dead. Eight per cent.
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