Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. And Miss Miniver began to sway her. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. 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. I should say that you owed me considerable.
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