"But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Horribly skinny he was, and short too. “Freedom! Citizenship! And the way to that—the way to everything—is the Vote. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves.
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