"What's that?" asked Wild. Still, one has to be reasonable. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. ‘Help yourself, Hilary. ” He threw open the door of the sitting-room and switched on the electric light. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. We are alone and we can say and do what we please. “What’s that for?” He said. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us.
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