The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. For a moment she remained silent. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. I am a little afraid. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. Just an idea of mine. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. She started forward. Bah. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. His perseverance was amply rewarded. I don’t care. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale.
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