"If that sickly brat lives to be a man," continued Jonathan, rising, "I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. “I believe so. A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. Or run me through.
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