'
They parted from him.
'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious,' said Biffen. 'Poor
fellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse would
be better, I should think.'
'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a horror
of the workhouse. Remember the clock at Marylebone I used to tell
you about.'
'Unphilosophic. I don't think I should be unhappy in the
workhouse. I should have a certain satisfaction in the thought
that I had forced society to support me. And then the absolute
freedom from care! Why, it's very much the same as being a man of
independent fortune.'
It was about a week after this, midway in November, that there at
length came to Manville Street a letter addressed in Amy's hand.
It arrived at three one afternoon; Reardon heard the postman, but
he had ceased to rush out on every such occasion, and to-day he
was feeling ill. Lying upon the bed, he had just raised his head
wearily when he became aware that someone was mounting to his
room. He sprang up, his face and neck flushing.
This time Amy began 'Dear Edwin'; the sight of those words made
his brain swim.
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