47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. He turned in at the club. He had nothing more to say either to her or to Spurlock. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Someone ought to be with him until the doctor arrives.
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