Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. "He wouldn't hurt a rabbit. But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury.
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