’ ‘Can you prove it?’ demanded Hilary. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. I rarely set foot in London these days. My boys are all Sandwich Island born. Drink, and no sustaining food. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared.
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