“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. 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. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. “Well, hello there. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. "That gown is getting shabby. You have been her guardian angel.
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