"How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. ‘You were his daughter. “Dear me!” he said. 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.
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