Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following DRINKING SONG. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations.
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