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In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. Only you won’t let me exist!” Mr. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. The youth with the hair brushed back and the spectacled Scotchman joined in the fray for and against the women’s vote. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things.
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