They are for serving me. "What?… Oh!… Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. He seemed to have expected them. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this.
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