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. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. She loved to be told to do things. Montressor’s guests. They have retired. Sebastian leapt down into the crypt. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. Oh God! pardon me.
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