“The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions— From patches, justly placed, they borrow'd graces, And with vermilion lacquer'd o'er their faces. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. “Of course!” he said. Wood, in indignant surprise. “Quite on my own,” she said.
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