It was
just like the newspaper business not even to allow one a little
sentimental harrowing over one's exodus from it. But the time for gentle
melancholy came later on, when she was sorting her things at her desk
just before leaving, and was wondering what girl would have that old
desk--if they cared to risk another girl, and whether the other poor girl
would slave through the years she should have been frivolous, only to
have some man step in at the end and induce her to surrender the things
she had gained through sacrifice and toil. As she wrote a final letter on
her typewriter--she did hate letting the old machine go--Georgia did
considerable philosophising about the irony of working for things only to
the end of giving them up. She had waded through snowdrifts and been
drenched in pouring rains, she had been frozen with the cold and
prostrated with the heat, she had been blown about by Chicago wind until
it was strange there was any of her left in one piece, she had had front
doors--yes, and back doors too, slammed in her face, she had been the
butt of the alleged wit of menials and hirelings, she had been patronised
by vapid women as the poor girl who must make her living some way, she
had been roasted by--but never mind--she had had a beat or two! And now
she was to wind it all up by marrying Joseph Tank, who had made a great
deal of money out of the manufacture of paper bags.
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