Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops. They were exquisite. I've been thinking about it ever since morning. ” She dropped back into a crouching attitude and began to weep. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet.
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