And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. “Freedom! Citizenship! And the way to that—the way to everything—is the Vote. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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