“You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. 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. Even to my own brother—if I had one—I could not tell everything, and you, although you are so kind, you are almost a stranger, aren’t you?” “No, no!” he protested. No one. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. She felt terrible lying to him. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles.
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