‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. I’ve had enough of it. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. Then her fingers moved. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. Such pretty manners, she thought. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink.
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