Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. Stanley’s pace slackened. It was a haunted place. In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. “I must go. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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