She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. She looked away. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. I can't invent; the thing won't come. "'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll.
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