To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. She knew the truth of it all right.
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