But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. She would then partially recall the items that she had heard about him, presenting each at the angle that was the most likely to inflict pain. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver.
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