The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. ” Behind this woman and a little to the side of her, walked a man smartly dressed, with desire and appraisal in his eyes. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Over here men drink because they are lonely; and when they drink too hard and too long, they wind up on the beach. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. ‘Tell me what you know of Miss Charvill?’ he ordered severely.
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