"When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. "But, however, it may turn out, I disown you. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. What’s that?” They both stood listening. "More slang," he said.
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