Inside was the blue stone she had lost in the 1800’s. 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. You’re mine. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder. But oh, how weary I am! I know.
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