She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. ‘If you love me, you will say it, or else I will blow off your head. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. 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. After all, this could never be the black sheep. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. I trust that no unpleasant rumours will be circulated before the election, at any rate. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink.
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