She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. She became at times an embodiment for Ann Veronica of all that made the suffrage movement defective and unsatisfying. I'd go for it. She had something of the feeling a Hindoo must experience who has been into surroundings or touched something that offends his caste. “I cannot keep silence any longer. ” “That’s if we succeed.
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