“Yes. " Davies reluctantly complied. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Danger, the most terrible she had ever faced, was substantially in this room. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. “Which one?” “The one whose life you have been making a burden, who has been all the time shielding her sister. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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