Our ideal had fallen. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. 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 drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. ’ ‘He doesn’t sound like a desirable parti. ” She laughed softly to herself.
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