Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. ’ ‘What, a common soldier?’ ‘He was not a common soldier. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. But he's witty and amusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like a Paderewski. But as she got out of the train at Morningside Park Station she had a shock.
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