” She blushed deeply. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. Giving him a wide berth, and keeping her pistol high, she made her way to the door and warily peered through it.
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