" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. She tried to scream, \"I'm coming to you, Mama!\" But no sound would come from her mouth. He's nice. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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