Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. "I must tell you," she was saying. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. The G. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind.
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