Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. 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. "Enough," said the widow, gratefully. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. I shall not let you go till I am quite sure. Each time that we meet I try to kill you.
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