“What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. Compared to most of America, you’re rich. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. It'll be your turn to save mine next. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. I made her my unwilling confederate. . ’ ‘Just what I thought, miss.
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