It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. "Can't you take me with you?" urged the voice; "I'll make it well worth your while. He listened. “I’ve heard some even more entertaining news from the Orchestra grapevine too.
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