And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. But that possibility had been anticipated. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. CHAPTER XXXII. ‘I’ll make you an offer.
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