His
landlady supplied him with nothing: ever since he had gone to her he had
done his own catering, going out for his meals. The last meal, on the
previous evening, had been a glass of milk and a stale, though sizable
bun, and now he felt literally ravenous. It was only by an effort that he
could force himself to pass the eating-house; once beyond its door, he
ran, ran until he reached his lodgings and slipped three sovereigns into
Mrs. Flitwick's hands.
"That'll make us right to this week end, Mrs. Flitwick," he said. "Put the
receipt in my room."
"And greatly obliged I am to you, Mr. Lauriston," answered the landlady.
"And sorry, indeed, you should have had to put yourself to the trouble,
but--"
"All right, all right--no trouble--no trouble at all," exclaimed
Lauriston. "Quite easy, I assure you!"
He ran out of the house again and back to where he knew there was food. He
was only one-and-twenty, a well-built lad, with a healthy appetite, which,
until very recently, had always been satisfied, and just then he was
feeling that unless he ate and drank, something--he knew not what--would
happen.
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