I told him instantly and shamelessly that the play was going to be worth ten thousand pounds. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. Saint Giles's Round-house. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. “I think that I know very well what I am saying,” she answered. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. This was his humiliation as well as hers.
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