She paused for a moment. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. " "Can I trust him?" mused Jack. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. I cannot let you go. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions.
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