“What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. “He can’t be more than thirty.
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