You know as well as I do that it was accident. Sheila bellowed, a great wail of a sound from deep in her belly, flinging her tremendous weight towards him. 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. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Are you all here?” “Five boxes full,” she answered. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain.
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