“It is a great art,” she said in broken English. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. She’s got a great imagination. 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. ’ He glanced at the portrait behind her. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. I got a rusty bolt cutter. Things happen out this way. I think I know where I am puzzling you now——” “Then for Heaven’s sake be merciful,” he exclaimed. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. I knew it. ’ There was a pause. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand.
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