She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. It is a true saying that in the mountains there is peace. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. An Englishwoman. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. CHAPTER XXVII.
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