He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. "I've waited supper, you perceive. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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