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I would open the envelope to find all the drawings and the rejection slip—did anyone even look at them?

One week, there was a torn slip of paper clipped onto the rejection slip, which said, in an almost unreadable scrawl, “Holding one.”

She thought of her letter, her sugarcoated rejection slip.

Ten typed-up poems lay beneath a printed rejection slip from Criterion magazine, initialed by Mr. Eliot himself.

I never would just send back a rejection slip.