He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. CHAPTER XX. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. ‘And this is where you have been all the time?’ ‘I would have been back in a day, I promise you. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. They rose as she approached.
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