“It isn’t anything to do with our times particularly. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. But I do not need that Gérard attend. 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. And that would spoil it. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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