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. We went our ways. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know. Had he found the secret door? Running to the centre, she tried to judge where the knocking came from. Thank you for the books. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd. “I wouldn’t.
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