People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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