Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. Maggot. But I can easily bring in a sing-song girl to play for you. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. ‘Imbecile. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. “You are in trouble,” he said. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars.
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