The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. “Oh, John, please!” “You are already leaving me. 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. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. When he said, “Let’s go and see the wart-hog,” she thought no one ever had had so quick a flow of good ideas as he; and when he explained that sugar and not buns was the talisman of popularity among the animals, she marvelled at his practical omniscience.
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