Ennison kicked it away with his foot. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. Besides, Gerald would not for the world have passed up the chance of a little excitement. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. “Thank you. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at night. And she’s pluck to the backbone. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. —Strype's Stow. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope.
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