It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. ‘Prudence? This name I have heard it spoken. She leaves town to-morrow. 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 knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. “I am giving my understudy a chance. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. White calls them. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. That's how I finally got wind of it. And after that Alice became remoter than ever, and, after a time, ill. It is not at all what I expected either.
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