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. It was Blueskin. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. A pretty name for a pretty girl. It was years before your time. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer.
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