“What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. “Okay. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears.
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