The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us.
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