” Annabel rose and followed her sister from the room. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. Now, you know where he is bound. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Here you only waste your time. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. " Here she began to blubber loudly for sympathy. “To Hell if we don’t change our ways.
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