“The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. They litter up the room. But she did not believe he would do that. But it sounds too real to be imagined. I am come to serve you. ” She looked at him quizzically. He had been very easy or she had been very lucky. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter.
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