The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. She went further: she doubted that he was fully conscious of where he was. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. 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. I do not know how I shall get it, but I must, you understand. As he fell, he caught at the projecting masonry.
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