” He threw open the door of the sitting-room and switched on the electric light. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully. Mr. I tried it myself, Sir. 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. But those days are over—quite over.
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