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Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Did you really doubt if I knew?” “No. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal. ‘Very well, then. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. 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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