. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald grinned. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. 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. F. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne.
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