"Under the table. 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. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. 48 <6> THE FRIDAY NIGHT SHOW The air was chill and the sky overcast and misting. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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