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. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. "Look at it!" he felt like screaming. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. But I proved it to them! Oh yeah, I told John, but I don’t think he believes me either. “I will go,” he said. I told him the truth. Tell me I haven’t heard. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears.
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