"Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. He obeyed, letting the garment fall to the floor. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. “What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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