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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Oh, she's a policy-drunkard," answered Pinky, loud enough to be heard by the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and turned her head, her veil falling partly away, and disclosing features so pale and wasted that she looked more like a ghost than living flesh and blood. There was a strange gleam in her eyes.
She had become a policy-drunkard a vice almost as disastrous in its effects as its kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing and less openly indulged. "Where now?" was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down, after spending in policies all the money they had received from the sale of Flora Bond's clothing. "Any other game?" "Yes." "What?"
She paused only for an instant, but her steps were slower as she went on climbing the steep and narrow stairs that led to the policy-office. "Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?" exclaimed Nell Peter. "It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all." "Oh, I've seen lots of 'em," answered Pinky. "She's a policy-drunkard. Bad as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em.
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