On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. ” Michelle’s voice lowered to a whisper. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. They give themselves airs, but so it is. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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