At least for one moment, it was. 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. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. Her English was halting. She despises me, I suppose. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once. Kneebone. And Mother trusted him.
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