She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. “I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. 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. When she spoke, her lips twitched. The first peg was torture. It was the size of my palm. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. Earles said, “but this is rubbish. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress.
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