It's of no use. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. It is safe. 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. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited.
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