It had been her home for hundreds of years. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us. " "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. . “Um, okay. Try your luck with Jarvis Remenham—if you will.
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