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The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Lucy simply added her own good night, even though a significant part of her wanted to call Cathy mother, she refrained. 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. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. "Holloa—what's that?" cried Austin, starting up.
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