“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. "The door's open, and the room empty. Nothing has been touched since. ” He coughed gently. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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