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. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. “You have even her name. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. Fathers are abandoning their own children at the first sign of fever or buboes, Gianfrancesco! Priests have abandoned their churches. It will give me great pleasure to settle an annuity for a moderate amount upon you on certain conditions.
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