She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. The blades on the top spun faster and faster. She hung for a moment, and then went on, conclusively, “Until we have the vote that is how things WILL be. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre.
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