Little by little, she stopped hating him. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. “Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy.
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