He went on with intense urgency. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. Me, you may have. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side.
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