She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. His smile faded. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. If he senses fear in the touch of your hand, he'll give you trouble. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us. She throws a sort of spell over us all. ” She replied dryly.
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