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 reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. “It’s very good,” she said. Pews had been brought in and set in two rows before the huge table, covered in white cloth, that formed the altar at the far end. I am going up to dine with my sister. Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. I don’t care. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. " CHAPTER IV. “It was the night you left Paris.
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