Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. We are alone and we can say and do what we please. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. My politics in that matter wouldn’t be to give women votes. ” “And leave you here alone?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper.
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