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 stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. Wily little devil she is. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. Stanley, with an imperious gesture, “to come in here. . It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it. It’s a mismatch.
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