A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. 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. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. She laughed. Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. “My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you.
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