Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “P. He greeted the corpulent boy at the register, whose tag read, \"MY NAME IS Jason\" with familiarity. ” “Many other people,” she remarked, “have made the same mistake. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. John knew better. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Wiped out, but for these. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. “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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