And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet.
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