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. But I dare not accept it. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. “No one asks you to care for them. Presently McClintock came in. "Who? Jack!" exclaimed Jonathan. And I do not know you. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. You know—if you want freedom. “You are talking like a boy. That is the dreadful truth. To prevent the leaves from blowing about, should a blow develop, he distributed paper weights.
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