They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite.
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