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. But he was wide awake. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone.
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