The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Melusine dashed them away, but they kept on coming. A neighbor stopped by as the day wore on, causing her to duck and cower as he rang the doorbell over and over. “You, too,” he said abruptly. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. Spurlock. You did not see me, I know. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. Maggot. He was looking pale and ill.
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