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. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. You are in the hands of a wicked, a terrible man, who will not stop till he has completed your destruction. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. They ought to put a lamp. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same.
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