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. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. She drank it obediently. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. He had the air of a man who has said too much.
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