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Updated: May 4, 2025
"See that ye never get a drunkard's liver," said Sandy in a solemn voice; an' ane o' Dauvid's laddies says, "By golly, I wudna like a sowser o' a liver like that, onywey," an' set a' the rest a-lauchin'.
They are utterly regardless of the men who are now pure, who may be degraded and wrecked, both in soul and body, and sent to drunkards' graves and a drunkard's eternity.
"Not to be soaped," she murmured to herself in a heat. The apparently medicinal articles of attire were obtained from Aunt Anne, without a word of speech on the part of that pale spinster. The deferential hostility between the two women acknowledged an intervening chasm. Aunt Anne produced a bundle, and placed the hat on it, upon which she had neatly pinned a tract, "The Drunkard's Awakening!"
One, representing a rickety house with broken windows, a crooked weed-grown path leading up to a gate fallen off the hinges, and a fence with half the pickets off, she labelled "The Drunkard's Home." Then she drew a companion picture of a neat farmhouse with a straight path, and fence and gate all in apple-pie order, which she called "The Reformed Drunkard's Home."
His mere pen-strokes have, for the expert, a beauty and an interest quite apart from the thing they are made to depict, whether he uses them as mere outlines to express the shape of things animate or inanimate, even such shapeless, irregular things as the stones on a sea-beach or in combination to suggest the tone and colour of a dress-coat, or a drunkard's nose, of a cab or omnibus of a distant mountain with miles of atmosphere between it and the figures in the foreground.
His earthen floors were carpeted with straw and frescoed with bones. Let us not swell with pride as we refer to our ancestors, whose lives were marked by an eternal combat between malignant alcoholism and trichinosis. Many a Saxon would have filled a drunkard's grave, but wabbled so in his gait that he walked past it and missed it.
Many a worthy Christian, coming out of his or her place of worship, chuckled over the wit of this amiable husband, and observed, in the midst of laughter, that his wife, poor thing, had only got her deserts. In the earlier hours of that Sunday morning rumour had darted about, busily telling of the sudden freak the drunkard's violence had taken, and of Father Cameron's death.
Jeremie, his collar unbuttoned, was taking drunkard's poses, one leg outstretched, one arm hanging down and in the other hand holding a domino. They were alone now with the owner, who had come up to them, interested. He asked: "Well, Jeremie, how goes it inside? Feel less thirsty after wetting your throat?" Jeremie muttered: "The more I wet it, the drier it gets inside."
He was in one of the drunkard's periods of collapse shivering, flabby, starting at every sound, a misery to himself and a spectacle to others. 'Mr. Henslowe! cried Robert, still pursuing him, 'may I speak to you a moment? The ex-agent turned, his prominent bloodshot eyes glowering at the speaker.
She would shrink back and bend her face over her work; she avoided the drunkard's eyes, and used to try gently to quiet him when he said coarse things that made her blush. But Jean-Christophe did not understand, and he was in such need of gaiety that these noisy home-comings of his father were almost a festival to him. The house was melancholy, and these follies were a relaxation for him.
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