Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ” He writhed.
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