“There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. I’ll mention it.
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