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. “I don’t know, John. "'Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered.
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