He would always be her friend, too. 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 was sick of the make-believe. Destruction everywhere marked its course. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. ” “Oh, well!” he said, a little doubtfully, “it’s just a phase,” and bent down and rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, with his heart beating and his nerves a-quiver. I might as well be at Morningside Park.
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