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. She was furiously angry. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. . If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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