"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. He said nothing. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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