Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. Brendon and I returned from the ‘Unusual,’ and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. “Dear me!” he said. Nevertheless, Ann Veronica found it a difficult matter not to think of these things. “But what can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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