Then she goes to a dramatic agent. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. Sheppard in the asylum, and take her this, and send her that;—and I've never prevented you, though such mistaken liberality's enough to provoke a saint. 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.
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