He told me that he was a millionaire. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. You would not have believed me, I know well. Part 2 The next few weeks were a time of the very liveliest thought and growth for Ann Veronica. 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 hate what I am. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever.
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