The Roof and the Window V. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. 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. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. I suppose the phrase—the word—originally meant a man who searched for food on the beach. She drew a long breath. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray.
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