He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. 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. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. The attempt was unsuccessful. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head.
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