I
luxuriate in self-contempt. My time is short, and I want to pass it away
speedily. This life suits me, for I seldom have my senses, and there is
only the early morning to dread. I think then--think, think, think.
Until I can scrape together my first liquor I see ugly things. I should
be in my own town with my grandchildren round me. I might have been on
the Bench, like my brother, and all men would have respected me as they
do him. Sons and daughters would have gathered round me when I came to
my last hour. I gave it all up in order to sluice my throat with brandy
and gin. That is the way I think in the morning. Then I take a glass, or
beg one, as I shall from you presently, and then I forget. Once I went
out to commit suicide, and took three whiskies to string my nerve up. In
two minutes I was laughing at a Punch and Judy show. If you'll kindly
order a quartern of gin in a pint glass for me, I'll fill it up and be
quite content all the evening. No one ill-uses me. I'm a soft, harmless,
disreputable old ne'er-do-well.
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