Devilish poor consolation, that.
MRS LUTESTRING. There were other consolations in those days for people
like me. We drank preparations of alcohol to relieve the strain of
living and give us an artificial happiness.
BURGE-LUBIN {[[_all together,_]} Alcohol! CONFUCIUS {[_making_] } Pfff
...! BARNABAS {[_wry faces_]] } Disgusting.
MRS LUTESTRING. A little alcohol would improve your temper and manners,
and make you much easier to live with, Mr Accountant General.
BURGE-LUBIN [_laughing_] By George, I believe you! Try it, Barnabas.
CONFUCIUS. No. Try tea. It is the more civilized poison of the two.
MRS LUTESTRING. You, Mr President, were born intoxicated with your own
well-fed natural exuberance. You cannot imagine what alcohol was to an
underfed poor woman. I had carefully arranged my little savings so that
I could get drunk, as we called it, once a week; and my only pleasure
was looking forward to that poor little debauch. That is what saved
me from suicide. I could not bear to miss my next carouse. But when
I stopped working, and lived on my pension, the fatigue of my life's
drudgery began to wear off, because, you see, I was not really old.
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