One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player. For freedom at least. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. His tone was kind and sympathetic. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered.
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