It had been discussed in silence. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat.
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