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“I don’t care what any one thinks,” said Ann Veronica. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal. I did not know what I was saying. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man—” “No, it’s absolutely out of the question, Mr. . This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know.
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