I suspect he has a bit of vanity. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. The papers are continually wondering what has become of ‘Alcide. Her unnatural calm was giving way. 148 “Sure. She always dawdled, so it was easy. It was clear it must be to-morrow. " "Hoddy," she repeated.
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