" "A miniature! Of whom?" "That I can't say," replied Jack, mysteriously. , like to forget all about it—even their names. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. 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.
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