There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick. It's infernally provoking. He’s really hot. 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. . “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica.
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