Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. " The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. ‘That is, if she’s gone that way. 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 did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu.
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