No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. I tell you—never mind the bill. I only seen her when she come with that Sister Martha. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette.
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