Daughters were in the air that day. A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. "Here," repeated her brother. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. I mean Miss Charvill no harm.
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