She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. He pulled down a chair to her left. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. I tell you that because it puts us on a footing. John said nothing. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy.
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