The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. "A good idea!" exclaimed the carpenter. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. “I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary.
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