And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. 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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