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Several weeks later another reference in home-letters is[291] found to the brave girl, mentioned above: 鈥楤y last accounts dear T. is holding out nobly. We are not allowed to see her; but I hear that one or more Maulvis[85] have been brought to try to argue the young maiden out of her faith. But she tells them that they may read to her all day long, but they never will change her. They say that Christianity is 鈥榳ritten on her heart,鈥欌€攚hat a testimony from Muhammadans!鈥攁nd that the ladies must have bewitched her. It reminds me of Lady Jane Grey in prison; for dear T. is a prisoner.鈥

I stayed with the Clarion another two years, until I was just over twenty-one, and by then I was getting offers from the Nationals, from the Express and the Mail, and it seemed to me it was time to get out of S.W.3 and into the world. I was still living with Susan. She had got a job with the Foreign Office in something called "Communications," about which she was very secretive, and she had a boy-friend from the same department, and I knew it wouldn't be long before they got engaged and she would want the whole flat. My own private life was a vacuum-a business of drifting friendships and semi-flirtations from which I always recoiled, and I was in danger of becoming a hard, if successful, little career girl, smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too many vodkas and tonics and eating alone out of tins. My gods, or rather goddesses (Katharine Whitehorne and Penelope Gilliatt were outside my orbit), were Drusilla Beyfus, Veronica Papworth, Jean Campbell, Shirley Lord, Barbara Griggs, and Anne Sharpley-the top women journalists-and I only wanted to be as good as any of them and nothing else in the world.

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