She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. Smith, "upon my conscience. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was.
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