Into the second, denominated the Bilbowes,—also a dismal place,—refractory prisoners were thrust, and placed in a kind of stocks, whence the name. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. “I wish I could make every woman, every girl, see this as clearly as I see it—just what the Vote means to us.
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