“The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. “It’s precious unromantic. " "Curse you!" cried Jack, furiously,—"curse you!—curse you!" "Swear away, Captain," rejoined Blueskin, coolly. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness.
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