The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. “No, no,” she cried. “You can date whomever you wish. She was the type that people of every age gravitated to, naturally affable and kind to everyone. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. I love some one else.
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