“I want a vote for myself,” she said. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. Ireton, you are in league with him.
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