“There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you. More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. “What do you think of that?” he asked. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night.
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