The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. Wood. Heaven forbid. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world.
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