Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. “And what will Mr. ” He looked at her intensely, his dark eyes deepened with sleeplessness. She pocketed the sum total of his ready cash, about fortyeight dollars. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. 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. Go away!” “Why kill this one, Lucia? She shall be missed.
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