“What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. "The night before last, Mr. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. ‘More nor that. ’ Melusine’s eyes misted. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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