“There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. "The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield.
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