"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. She found a little difficulty in beginning. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. Then for a time she sat very still. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual.
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