"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. 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. “Have you told anybody else?” Lucy asked. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. I shall be delighted to rescue you. There was no longer any risk in association with her. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod.
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