Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything.
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