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. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “You will go and see her,” he begged. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. E. “I do love you.
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