“There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. I burned it. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged.
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