She became at times an embodiment for Ann Veronica of all that made the suffrage movement defective and unsatisfying. There was a young lad ahead of her. His hunger satisfied, his spirits began to revive, and with this change of mood all his natural audacity returned. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him.
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