She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. She moaned, having failed in her mission to find her mother and her God. 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. Stop it. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. Then she had a baby and became as old as any really grown-up person, or older, and very dull. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door.
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