I cannot explain beyond that. She was definitely following him. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. CHAPTER XVI. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. “Do?” “Are you prepared to do things for us? Distribute bills? Write letters? Interrupt meetings? Canvass at elections? Face dangers?” “If I am satisfied—” “If we satisfy you?” “Then, if possible, I would like to go to prison. He kissed her lightly on the lips.
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