“It was inevitable,” he declared. 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. “What’s that for?” He said. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window.
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