“The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. 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. He called a waiter. ” “But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—You can’t—at first. . Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester.
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