Some one was standing beside him. An old man and a young girl, the one as stubbornly offensive as the other. The youth with the hair brushed back and the spectacled Scotchman joined in the fray for and against the women’s vote. “None, I thank you,” he answered. “Not to-night,” she said. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. I've left mine on the spikes of the New Prison, and must borrow yours. CHAPTER XXI.
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