And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt.
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