She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. 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. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. ” She turned herself to one side and propped her head in her hand. ’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. Had to. ‘Of course. A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. "I didn't think you'd been so easily fooled, Joan.
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