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. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. " "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes.
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