"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. He had no ideas about daughters. Thames sat with Winifred's hand clasped in his own, and commenced a recital of his adventures, which may be briefly told. The woman shrugged her shoulders. “So far you’ve got me and I you. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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