She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. With such qualifications as she possessed, two chief channels of employment lay open, and neither attracted her, neither seemed really to offer a conclusive escape from that subjection to mankind against which, in the person of her father, she was rebelling. “Eight, Cavendish Square. Use the gilt, man!" "There's no need of picklock or crow-bar, here, Mr. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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