" "Why, my love," rejoined her husband, "appearances, you must allow, were a little against you. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Are you now satisfied?" "No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn.
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