" "But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandable dog-talk. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Come in! Come in, do. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. It would be the culmination of her plan. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss.
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