“Lucy, my brother is home and I borrowed the cash from him. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Look out, it’s coming. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “Is this Montague Street, W.
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