‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. But I don’t suppose you can understand. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another.
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