"But you are--crying!" he marveled, watching a tear
slide down my nose.
"I'm not," I retorted. "Anyway I know it. I think
I may blubber if I choose to, mayn't I, as well as other
women?"
"Blubber?" repeated Von Gerhard, he of the careful
and cautious English. "But most certainly, if you wish.
I had thought that newspaper women did not indulge in the
luxury of tears."
"They don't--often. Haven't the time. If a woman
reporter were to burst into tears every time
she saw something to weep over she'd be going about with
a red nose and puffy eyelids half the time. Scarcely a
day passes that does not bring her face to face with
human suffering in some form. Not only must she see
these things, but she must write of them so that those
who read can also see them. And just because she does
not wail and tear her hair and faint she popularly is
supposed to be a flinty, cigarette-smoking creature who
rampages up and down the land, seeking whom she may rend
with her pen and gazing, dry-eyed, upon scenes of horrid
bloodshed."
"And yet the little domestic tragedy of the
Nirlangers can bring tears to your eyes?"
"Oh, that was quite different. The case of the
Nirlangers had nothing to do with Dawn O'Hara, newspaper
reporter.
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