“Oh dear, I’m not dressed. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. ” He spoke a little nervously. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. " "Afraid?" "Yes. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment.
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