Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. “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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