It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. All her pride raged at me. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. \"I don't want to hurt you. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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