He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. Sebastian spotted her among them instantly. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. He was a small, dark, reserved man, with a large inflexiblelooking convex forehead, and his wife was very pink and high-spirited, with one of those chins that pass insensibly into a full, strong neck. “But I am judge of that,” said Manning. “Okay.
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