He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. 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. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. You know—I worship you. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. How did you get into this house?’ He shrugged. I had nosebleeds that day and I got halfway up the rope before I fell off.
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