On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. 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. He paced faster, stomping around. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. ” “Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. She looked steadfastly out. He had been back for two weeks during some pleasant weather in July.
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