The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. “It’s—private. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. ” He greeted her. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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