Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. "I had to give in to him. ” Lucy gestured to the rough plywood floor. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. Here we are. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. “You should quit. ” He beamed upon her. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned.
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